The Only Historic Full-Service Hotel in the
Heart of Mendocino Village Overlooking the
Pacific Ocean and the Mendocino Headlands
He clicked the link for online reservations and started filling out the form. He had almost reached the end but stopped. They wanted a credit card number. Adam walked over to the door, and peeking down the hallway, he could see the kids watching TV in the family room and could hear Jane talking on her cell in the kitchen. He went back to his desk and dialed the hotel’s reservation number.
“Mendocino Hotel. May I help you?” The woman’s voice was extremely chipper.
Adam did his best to speak quietly without sounding like a stalker. “Hello. Is it possible to make a reservation online without using a credit card number? I’d like to pay for my room with cash. Is that possible?”
The woman took a moment to reply. It sounded to Adam like she was chewing on something crunchy. “To secure your reservation, sir, I’m afraid we do need a credit card.”
Adam gave a frustrated sigh.
“When are you thinking about staying with us?” the woman asked.
“This weekend. Tomorrow. December tenth.”
“Oh, I see.” The woman’s voice sounded apologetic. “Unfortunately, sir, we have a big wedding here this weekend, and so we are completely . . . Oh, wait just a sec.” The woman was silent for a moment, then she came back on, her voice brightening. “Well, it looks like your lucky day. I’m seeing a last-minute cancellation . . . Hope it’s not the groom.” The woman snorted a few times, and then cleared her throat. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Um, so, how many people would this be for?”
Adam was about to reply when he noticed Jane’s voice growing louder. He quickly hung up, grabbed a book, walk-ran to his armchair, dove in, and pretended to read.
Jane entered, earbuds in, phone in one hand and a magazine in the other. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a good carb or a bad carb, Mom. A carb is a carb. That’s the point. And that’s what they should be telling you.”
Adam looked up from his book, his momentary relief turning to panic as he saw his laptop still open to the partially filled out Mendocino Hotel reservation page.
“Well, you can’t believe every single thing you see on those stupid programs; they’re just trying to sell you something. You need the facts, Mom. Facts.”
Adam crossed the room and pushed the lid of his laptop closed. Jane didn’t notice a thing.
Adam went back to his armchair and picked up the book again, only just now noticing it was Navigations of the Hidden Domain. For several minutes he tried to read, but was too distracted. I’m terrified of my own wife, he thought. The funny thing is, she’s completely oblivious. As long as I’m not a problem, I’m invisible.
As if to underscore the point, Jane walked out of the room just as unceremoniously as she had entered it.
Adam sat silently for a moment, allowing the anxiety to well back up inside, supplying him with the energy needed to again cross the room and fill out the rest of the online reservation form.
CHAPTER 8
EXODUS
His hands hovered just above the hot- and cold-water faucets. He had been standing in the shower like that for close to five minutes, no longer thinking about anything, only trying to remember the incredibly important thing he had just forgotten. The shower was a relatively safe space for an Adam moment, and he had often gotten stuck in them here. Warm water pounded down on his face and chest as his mind did endless laps, trying to catch up to whatever it was he’d forgotten. But this morning there was an additional complication. Throughout the previous day, Adam had been carried along by a current of manic energy ignited by his dream of the playground, and although it had yet to lift him off the mechanical rails of habitual life, it had been preparing him for the jump. But now, after a sleepless night, Adam was finally beginning to tire. The fire in his blood had cooled, and the impulse to forget his plans and allow the fog of oblivion to smother him out for good was creeping in.
What Adam did next, he was not fully conscious of. His hands moved down to rest on the hot- and cold-water faucets. Then, as if someone else inside him had taken charge, his left hand began to twist, very slowly shutting off the hot water. The shock of the ice-cold water just about knocked Adam off his feet.
Some toiletries, a few random articles of clothing, several packets of protein shake mix, and his medication. Along with his laptop, these were items Jane would expect him to take. But he also picked out a cleanly pressed button-down shirt and a pair of dress slacks, packing them beneath everything else. Then Adam put on his jacket, picked up the travel bag, and turned to leave the room. On his way out, he stopped by Jane’s dresser and placed a small rose-colored envelope on it.
Moving down the hallway, Adam made a quick stop at the kids’ rooms. He peeked in on Madison first. She was asleep in her Barbie sports-car bed. After a moment Adam realized she wasn’t really asleep, but was texting under the covers. He wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate. Finally he turned to go.
“Shut the door,” called a muffled voice.
Adam turned back. “Hey, Maddie. Sorry, what was that?”
“Shut the door, Adam,” Madison repeated slowly as if Adam was deaf.
“Oh, okay. Sorry.”
Chandler was awake in his room, lying on the floor with the Xbox remote in his hands. His eyes flicked momentarily to Adam at the door, but his deadpan expression didn’t change. This time Adam dutifully shut the door.
“No, it’s not just wheat gluten.” Jane was at her desk in the study, staring at her laptop, talking to her earbuds. She had on her lime-green Lululemon yoga outfit. “Mom, it’s anything that’s been processed in or around the same facilities as wheat gluten.”
Adam poked his head in far enough to be noticed. He was clearly in her line of vision, so he waited. And waited.
“Like nuts. You know how many people are allergic to nuts?”
Jane finally mouthed, What?
Adam whispered, “I’m going in to the office. Blake called. There’s some work I have to finish.”
Jane shrugged, as if to say, Okay . . . and?
Adam continued. “So I’ll probably have to work some all-nighters on the Expansion. You should probably plan on me staying there until Monday.”
Jane pressed Mute on her iPhone screen. “I can’t drive you to BART, honey. I’ve got that yoga conference.”
“No, I know. I called a cab.”
Jane thought for a moment. “Take your medication and some packets of protein shake.”
“Got ’em both.” Adam patted his bag.
“And don’t forget your appointment with Dr. M. on Monday. It’s at nine A.M. Do you need me to text you?”
“No. I’ll remember.” He held up his iPhone. “You set that alert, so I’ll be okay.”
“Don’t miss your appointment, okay, sweetie?”
“Okay, I—” But Jane had already turned back to her laptop.
“Sorry, Mom, just dealing with Adam.”
Adam stood at the door for a moment longer looking at his wife, and then turned to go.
The economy rental car Adam picked was beige and still had that new-car smell. Thankfully it was an automatic; they probably all were. This was a good thing because Adam hadn’t been behind a wheel in over five years. A few months after Adam and Jane had bought their house in Blackhawk, they bought a BMW SUV for Jane and the kids, and a Mercedes SL55 AMG for Adam to commute to San Francisco in. Then one night, after a big push at Pixilate, Adam drove home at four in the morning and parked the car in the neighbor’s family room. After that, Jane decided it made more sense for Adam to take BART to work.
Adam pulled out his iPhone to double-check the directions. So far he’d never really used the map app on the phone, so it took him a while to figure it out. With his finger he traced the purple line, like a vein in a forearm of a body builder, up the coast of California from the Bay Area to the s
mall coastal town of Mendocino. Adam turned the key in the ignition and put the car in drive.
PING! The sharp sound came not from the car but from the cup holder where Adam had set his iPhone. Text message: Blake Dorsey Cell—P1. P1 meant Priority 1, which meant drop everything. Adam considered turning off his phone, then realized he needed the map. It pinged a second time. Adam decided he would ignore it.
Crossing the Richmond Bridge, Adam glanced out at the Bay. There was a small island just to the left of the bridge, and Adam found himself wondering if it had a name. He knew it wasn’t one of the important islands, like Alcatraz or Treasure Island. It was just a small mound of rock protruding from the water with some trees and grass on it. Maybe someone owns it, he thought. Some rich guy who built a hidden fortress inside the island accessible only by underwater passageways, like in a James Bond movie.
PING! Text message: Blake Dorsey Cell—P1!
Or maybe the island contains a portal that transports you to another island exactly like it but in some far off place, in some different dimension of . . .
Oooo-Weeee-Ooooo. Now Blake was calling. When Adam first got his new iPhone, he had set it to play the sci-fi ringtone for Blake’s incoming calls. For a while he had thought it was cool, but that was a year ago. He had been meaning to change it, but like so many things in his life, Adam had simply never gotten around to doing it.
Oooo-Weeee-Ooooo.
Adam continued up the 101 Freeway, past farms and cows and open meadows where giant oak trees were busy holding up the sky. The iPhone kept ringing and pinging, and Adam kept on driving. He scanned the landscape for distractions. He tried counting cows. By the time he reached Cloverdale, the phone had stopped ringing, and he’d begun to unwind a bit. He reached the point where the iPhone map indicated he should get off the 101 and get onto Highway 128, a two-lane highway. The first road sign he passed read: Booneville—28 miles, Philo—36 miles, Mendocino—45 miles.
PING!
Text message: Blake Dorsey Cell—P1!!!
The rental car seemed to float through the yellow, rolling hills as Adam made his way toward the coast. Moss-covered trees, dilapidated barns, and more cows; he’d counted 37 so far. I’m 37 years old today, he realized. Do other people who are almost 40 count cows?
Oooo-Weeee-Ooooo.
No. Real human beings who are almost 40 are busy counting important things like stock options and tax deductions and travel reward miles . . .
Oooo-Weeee-Ooooo.
Grown-up things that I should care about counting . . .
Oooo-Weeee-Ooooo.
ENOUGH OF THAT GODDAMN SOUND! Adam hit the brakes and pulled off to the side of the road, flung open the door, and climbed out. He took some deep breaths and exhaled with a slight humming sound. It was a trick he had developed as a child to calm himself during nighttime asthma attacks—before he had access to inhalers, when his only defense against sleep was to walk in circles or rock back and forth in bed, one deep breath after another, until morning came and he was safe.
The phone stopped ringing. Adam’s pulse started to ease. Calmer now, he walked back to the car and got in. After another cleansing breath, he looked at the phone. 7 missed calls and 11 text messages—all from Blake Dorsey. Then, like the dead killer in a scary movie, the phone jolted back to life.
Oooo-Weeee-Ooooo.
This time Adam didn’t put it down. He hit the green Talk symbol.
“Hello?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve called you eight thousand times!”
“I-I-I-I’m sorry. My phone was off—”
“It doesn’t ring if your phone is off! When your phone is off, it goes straight to voice mail! Why didn’t you pick up?”
Adam had never heard Blake like this before. “I didn’t see it was you. I’m sorry. I was—”
Blake interrupted. “Hallowing Hollows still has a bug.”
“But I fixed all the bugs before I left.”
“Ron and Sharlena in Testing are telling me that the blood splatter still goes through the tree trunks.”
“The blood doesn’t spatter through the tree trunks; that’s one of the things I fixed.” Adam moved the phone to his other ear. “What build are they looking at?”
“The one you left, and it’s not working, and none of these douche bags in Testing understands your goddamn code, so you need to get back in here and fix it.”
“Are they on version forty-two? They’re probably not looking at the latest build.”
From around the bend, a massive logging truck appeared and barreled past Adam’s car.
“Adam?” Blake’s voice sounded suspicious. “Where are you?”
“I’m at a thing.”
“A thing?”
“I’m going to a . . . It’s a thing that—”
“SPIT IT OUT!” Adam felt his chest tightening; Blake had never yelled at him before. “Goddamn it! Adam, where the fuck are you? Because I need you in front of a computer screen, where you belong, so you can fix whatever it is you fucked up!”
“Blake, I’m—I’m sorry. It’s the weekend, and I just—”
“This is P1! Got that? Priority 1!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Adam started rocking back and forth.
There was a long pause. “Ah, fuck . . .” Blake’s tone had changed, now less aggressive and more anxious. “Are you having one of your things . . . an episode? Is that what’s going on here?”
“No, Blake. I’m fine. I’m sorry, I just—”
“Is Jane with you? Are you alone? Do I need to call Dr. M.?”
“No! I’m fine! I don’t need any help, okay?”
“Yes, you do need help; you have always needed my help. And Jane’s. FUCK! Now is not the time, Adam; it’s just not the time!”
“I know. I’m sorry, but I can’t come in. I’m sorry, Blake.”
“Do you realize all the times I’ve come through for you? The countless times I’ve saved your ass?”
“Yes, Blake, I know. And I appreciate it.” Adam was mumbling now. “You’re right. I’m not arguing with you.” The muscles in Adam’s chest were so tight they began to hurt. “I’m just sorry, I’m sorry, okay? I’m SORRY! I’M FUCKING SORRY ABOUT EVERYTHING! SO FUCK OFF! OKAY? JUST FUCK OFF!”
Adam kicked open the car door, jumped out again, and threw his iPhone as hard as he could. It floated off toward the ravine on the opposite side of the highway, then down, down, down it went, until it was out of sight.
Adam got back in the rental car and shut the door. The sun visor had been knocked out of place, so he attempted to straighten it, but he couldn’t seem to get it back in the latch. Then he noticed how badly his hands were shaking. And then he heard a loud gasping sound, and in a moment, realized it was coming from him.
Adam broke into uncontrollable sobs. Instinctively he glanced around outside just to make sure no one was watching. The only witnesses were a few sheep on a nearby hillside. When a minivan came around the bend in the road, he leaned over, pretending to get something from the glove box as it passed by.
Slowly Adam began to settle down, until he was just sitting there in his economy rental, staring out through the windshield.
Here I am, he thought to himself. I am here. Here. No other thoughts followed for a long while. Then something outside caught his eye. Is that tree real?
The tall oak on the side of the highway 20 yards in front of his car had majestic wisps of gray-green moss hanging from its branches. Adam got out. He wanted to touch the tree to make sure it was real, make sure pixelated blood couldn’t splatter through its trunk. Sure enough, the bark was cold and rough under his hand, like uneven stone. Reaching up above his head, Adam pulled down a large piece of Spanish moss, and with it came a fragile memory.
Bright, hot sun shining. Insects buzzing. Mud-stained knees, pushing aside tall, ocher grass. Standing atop a tall stump, triumphant, wielding a stick like a sword. Twisting moss in his hand, fashioning it into a fake moustache
, attempting to hold it between his nose and upper lip. He was laughing. Somewhere close by, someone was laughing with him, someone whose love for him filled him with confidence and courage.
CHAPTER 9
ESCAPING WILD THINGS
Emerging from beneath the dense canopy of redwoods, Adam turned the car north up Highway 1, and after a few miles, rounded a bend and caught his first glimpse of the town of Mendocino. It was perched on the cliffs just like the pictures he’d seen online. The steeple of the century-old Presbyterian Church reached into the sky, snagging threads of thin, gray fog. The town’s other buildings and houses, many of Victorian architecture, appeared comfortably married to the land in the way that only time can achieve. Most interesting to Adam were the old, elevated water towers scattered about. They had the aesthetic effect of securing the town down to the earth, like giant pushpins.
Adam turned down Main Street, which instead of going through the middle of town, ran along the side of Mendocino that faced the ocean. All the buildings were on the right side of the street. On the left a long white fence separated the Mendocino Headlands where footpaths could be seen weaving through blackberry patches, tall grass, and coastal vegetation. Adam parked in front of the Mendocino Hotel, but before going in, he took a moment to look out at the bluff. Tourists were scattered about, couples mostly, and a few families. The wind off the ocean was crisp.
The lobby of the Mendocino Hotel was even more inviting than it had looked online—charming Victorian-era decor, antiques, a snug fireplace, on the walls old photos of Mendocino at the turn of the century. As Adam approached the reception desk, he noticed the bar and dining areas were set up for an event. A freestanding wooden sign had a white sheet of paper taped over it that read: Hendricks Wedding Reception.
“Welcome to the Mendocino Hotel. Are you checking in, sir?” The woman behind the reception desk had an angled bob and large, dangling earrings made of iridescent abalone shell. She was in her midthirties and had a round, somewhat flat face that reminded Adam of his stepmother Gloria’s beloved pug. Her name tag read Dorothy, and Adam recognized her chipper voice from his phone call the night before.
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